You breathe heavily, your cutlass to his throat, his to yours-- more firmly, the blade and not just the tip, he's so tall and has such reach and you're fast and strong but couldn't get close, you hate him for it-- and then he laughs, knocks your blade aside and steps back.
"I don't feel like dying today, come to think of it," he tells you, and you snarl, lunging at him with your blade swinging-- he steps aside, catches you around the waist, and lifts you off the deck, your back to his chest; he says something that doesn't quite make it past the fury in your head, though it sounds amused.
He sounds less amused when you kick your heel up between his legs, though.